It was a Sunday morning when a young woman in a smart grey dress appeared at the far end of Chater Road, a place that Filipina migrant women usually gather at on their one day-off in a week.

Such a fancy place, lots of local people would reckon. Though they’ve developed a sort of tacit agreement not to go there on Sundays, for it’ll become crowded, noisy and the antonym of “neat and tidy” to them. The jumble of boxes and bags packed with cheap goods, the peddling of counterfeits, the thudding music coming from speakers and microphones, made Chater Road far-fetched to be thought of as a high-end area for shopping. Peals of laughter accompanied by chatting and dancing can only be pleasant in the eyes of the few who understand those women’s situation, whilst in general, it is merely rowdy or clamorous to potential upper-class customers who have a propensity for nothing but luxury vibes.

In the midst of walking towards the centre of the road, the young woman began to be overwhelmed by what she saw — Chanel, Prada, Bvlgari and Cartier were all bathed in a golden hue by October’s sunlight. The items displayed in the showcases were lying there glittered, shimmered, with the embodiment of people’s desires and illusions of rosy life. Nothing seemed to relate to the migrant workers sitting on cardboard. They were disinvited.

As a local, this young woman had never been here on Sunday. She looked around, she observed, she was amazed and yet shocked at the same time. She took pictures of this and that, looking for the first ideal participant for her interview.

The intruder was nevertheless not the first one that took photos or videos of these Filipino women without approval. A hidden organisation at Chater Road, which always keeps an eye on the new faces who showed their unusual interest in domestic workers, had noticed her very presence for a little while.

“May I help you, ma’am?” The organisation sent a member to talk to the young woman.

“Hi, my name is Sara.” she stretched out a hand to shake the stranger’s, “I’m a journalist from CBTV in Hong Kong and I wanted to interview some Filipina women here. Is it okay?”

“I see. I’m Celia, a member from Gabriela Hong Kong,” pointing at the organisation’s banner and a group of women sitting on the concrete floor beside it, Celia continued, “and they are my colleagues. What do you want to know? May I ask?”

“Sure. I wanted to write an article on how you relax on your rest days, you know, to let local people know you guys better and perhaps to show other aspects of your life apart from being a live-in…maid? nanny? Which one do you prefer to be called?” Sara gazed around, becoming a bit flustered. “Anyway, you know what I mean?”

“Domestic workers. We prefer to be called domestic workers.”

Sara began to fiddle with her pen and gave a strained smile.

“But yeah, I know what you mean,” Celia added.

“You happy to have an interview?”

“I think so.”

“Great!” Sara relieved and grinned. Generally, she might have been turned down if she addressed someone in an undesirable way. But here, at the moment, with this Filipino woman in front of her, things became slightly easier than she expected. “If it’s okay, I wish to have some basic background knowledge about you and then our cameraman will take some photos during our interview. OK?”

Celia nodded.

Some domestic workers may be scared by cameras or fear to say something wrong and thereby lose their jobs and visas. But Celia feared nothing. Instead, she wanted to express herself, eagerly. So far, she had attended interviews conducted by international journalists, students, researchers, etc. She could say that she was experienced in answering questions, in speaking on the behalf of her community, in bringing their daily struggles to light.

Through the warm-up questions, Sara soon knew that Celia had worked in Hong Kong as a live-in maid for five years and that she terminated her first contract after three months due to emotional abuse, overwork, a lack of food and sleep. Having read a few articles about foreign maids in Hong Kong, Celia’s story didn’t dismay or surprise Sara that much. What did surprise Sara was that Celia graduated from the best university in the Philippines, as a talented art student.

With all bewilderment, Sara asked, “Why did you choose to become a m…I mean, a domestic worker in Hong Kong?”

“Choose? I never chose it. I had to,” Celia answered in a sarcastic tone.

Sara didn’t get it. In her world, the meritocratic world, people will be successful if they work hard, and they’ll find better jobs with better payment if they graduate from a prestigious university. If their jobs are not as decent as imagined, they must choose to do what they’re not supposed to do — to experience a different life, to be cool.

Time appeared to have paused between them.

In Celia’s world where families sleep under leaky roofs, where walls have never been painted, and where a university degree guarantees nothing, it’s not hard at all to explain to her fellow friends on Chater Road. She just needed to start with something like “finding a job is so difficult as a graduate especially majoring in art”, everyone would get it, fast and simple.

Yet explaining this to interviewers like Sara, it’s a long long story. However tedious it was to Celia, she had no other way but to repeat the reasons about why she ended up here, as a domestic worker, from the macro to the micro.

“Sara, I think you have no idea how hard it is to find a good job in the Philippines. There’re not enough jobs for graduates and young people…And our government isn’t helpful. If I could choose, I wanted to become a designer, a singer or a painter. I tried so hard to choose. But the companies only wanted very experienced designers. Artist? That is for rich people. They could wait, they don’t need to worry about food even without enough income. But I can’t. My family needs money. They already borrowed lots of money to pay my tuition fees and placed their hope on me. My mum found I was gifted at painting when I was two. She knew that poor people like us shouldn’t go for art, but she wanted me to pursue my dreams. Now, it’s my turn to pay back, and I can’t let them down.”

“How about being a teacher? You could teach kids to paint, right?”

Celia laughed for she couldn’t help herself, “Teacher? Hahaha! Well, let me give you an example. Being a level 1 teacher in a primary school in Manila can earn around 20,000 pesos a month, about 3,000 Hong Kong dollars, and that’s Manila, our capital city. But the salary is not even enough for you to rent a decent apartment in Manila. That’s why so many of our teachers came to Hong Kong to be domestic workers especially after having children or when they have a whole family to feed. You can earn more salary here than to be a teacher in our country. My friend Diwa,” Celia pointed to a woman who was in a red dress and seemed to be having a meeting with other domestic workers, “you see her?”

“Yes.”

“She was a social studies teacher in her hometown before. But she needs to put food on the table for her siblings. So, she quit her job and became a domestic worker in Hong Kong. Now Diwa can get twice as much of her income as a teacher in her hometown.”

Feeling like travelling through space, Sara didn’t know what to say. Nonetheless, she was glad she discovered something that had been underreported: many maids from the Philippines are actually well-educated and once had decent jobs according to mainstream society’s standards.

As an experienced journalist in a tabloid, Sara knew the golden rules in her industry — bad news sells. But she wasn’t intended to write something negative about domestic workers this time. Her discovery today would sell too, she believed. After all, nobody ever thought that well-educated, gifted and skilled women would work overseas as maids. She even came up with some catchy headlines. Everything just went smoothly.

“Is it okay to interview your friend Diwa as well?” Sara asked with excitement, planning for her next step.

“I need to talk to Diwa and get her approval.” Celia headed towards where Diwa was standing and said something to her. Then Diwa turned her head and beamed at Sara.

A few minutes later, Celia was back with a big yes from Diwa.

“Perfect! Now Celia, please tell me how many more are like you and Diwa in your organisation or here on Chater Road?”

“So many. Many of us have university degrees and had decent jobs before.”

“Awesome! I think many people here would like to know more about this dimension of you.” Sara waved to the cameraman and summoned him within earshot. “Alex, come here! Get ready!”

In the meantime, Diwa was heading to them for the upcoming interview, and her eyes fell on Sara whose dress was gently swaying in the brisk wind and whose hair dancing. What a pretty face in a pretty dress, she thought. What if she could live Sara’s life?

Alex was asked to take a few photos to see if everything was alright before the interview. Just as he was photographing them, Sara took a closer look at Celia and Diwa, from top to toe. Then, a sense of alienation rippled through her, and it occurred to her that some changes needed to be made.

“Alright! I’ve got an idea!” Sara said with her hands clapping, “Let’s meet here next Sunday, and then you two put your makeup on and wear your best dresses. We’re going to have our interview near the fountain over there. And then you guys are going to share your stories as a former teacher and a gifted art student and explain why you came to work in Hong Kong. Then tell me how you and your friends here have fun on Sunday. Oh! Perhaps grab a coffee while talking about it? How does that sound?”

Celia and Diwa exchanged glances, feeling confused.

“Well…but…” Celia protested, “this is how we look like and how we have fun on Sunday.”

“Yes. And we don’t have nice dresses for interviews,” Diwa added.

“It’s fine. I bet you must want to show the best version of yourself in front of the camera. You can borrow beautiful dresses from your friends or your employers. I’m sure you have makeup products to use. If you don’t have any, you can borrow some too,” Sara insisted.

Silence.

Celia and Diwa exchanged a look, finding themselves in a dilemma of whether or not to accept to attend this interview as Sara advised. If they refused Sara, would they lose a chance to promote their community since not many local journalists were willing to present a positive image for them? But if they agreed, they would need to borrow some really nice dresses.

These two migrant women mumbled on and on in Tagalog about the final decision. They eventually reached an agreement — to attend Sara’s interview next Sunday.

When Sara and the cameraman Alex were about to leave, Sara noticed that Diwa tugged at the dress she was wearing and murmured something in Celia’s ear.

It was in Tagalog, meaning “This is my best dress” in English. But Sara would never know.